Male Icy Karma (M) 4 Parts

[dz19l3]

   Hello, you may recall me from another post I made some time ago called Night Summons:

The characters may make more sense if you've already read it or read it first. This was my first attempt at a cold sneezefic on my tumblr a ways back, and proved very fun to write due to a certain wizard's inherent ignorance to his own health. Without further ado, the first piece:

                                                                                                                                                              *  *  *

I shivered in a bundle of towels and blankets in an armchair surrounded by books, physically miserable from the aftermath of the frozen wasteland and thoroughly snow melted clothes, but still pleased with myself.

   

   An ice golem down, enough pay received that I could get back to the safer but less profitable end of wizardly work for the time being, and all I’d had to do was experience nearly freezing to death. Something I was still experiencing.

   

   A strand of wet hair came loose from one of the towels, a droplet of water rolling down from it as the stray lock stuck to my forehead. It glided over the bridge of my nose, and rested on the end. It was cold, and tickled a bit. I wiped the bead of water away, sniffled, and felt a familiar, cool prickle form ambiguously.

 

   “HehK’TSSCHuhh!” It had not taken long to stop being ambiguous, still sensitive from the cold weather then. 

 

   “Heh’TSSCHISH!” There, twice. Wait.

 

   “Hhhh..” Three? “Hhi-iIH’TSCHOO!” Even after the third, the irritation did not quite fade, and I had to blink some of it away. That was odd, temperature changes and random sneezes usually came in pairs. The rule of two.

 

   I rubbed a knuckle against my nose, and in the process was reminded by my upper lip I had neglected shaving for some time. Some time, which meant around the time I’d started translating that behemoth of a tablet for a rather eccentric collector… Which was a little over a week ago. I think. 

 

   The golem probably mistook me for a baby snow hermit. Or a snow hermit in training.

 

   I contemplated the state of my personal hygiene, comparing the dire need of a razor to the holy warmth of the blankets. The blankets were handily winning the top spot on my list of priorities. Then I heard a drip of water, then another, and another. I extended my sensory field to the wet fur quilt of a coat hanging halfway off the mantle of the fireplace. The bucket meant to catch the water had overflowed, a pool formed around it, advancing on cliffs of leatherbound pages.

 

   The books!

 

   I descended from my blanketed nest like a devil possessed, my hair scattering yet more water, and rushed to swat every book on the floor as far away from the puddle as possible. Stacks collapsed and were sent skidding to the other side of the room. Lone volumes flew like papyrus-winged birds streaking across a sky of wooden planks. The forward march of the snowmelt puddle continued.

 

   I started throwing the towels from my chair at the growing threat of water damage, cursing myself for my lack of forethought, stopping only when there were no more towels to fuel the barrage. I touched the edge of the makeshift towel fortification, and found it very close to being completely saturated. I looked up woefully at the drenched frankenstein fur coat, acutely aware of my own shivering again.

 

   “Hhh’TSCHOO! HUHH’RRSCHOO!” I sneezed twice as I stood up, and moaned dramatically as I grudgingly started to take the water logged coat into my arms. I could feel it soaking my skin and sapping what little body heat I’d accumulated, but it had to be moved. Clearing a safe path with one foot, I made my way out the door to the bathroom, shivering hard the whole way.

 

   I worked the door handle with one knee, struggling to balance with the extra fifteen pounds of wet coat I was carrying, and raced inside. The bathroom was small, and only took about three steps for me to make it to the square divet in the floor which served as a bathtub. The coat hit the stone tiling at the bottom with the loudest splat I’d ever heard.

 

   It served no purpose beyond looking ominous, but I gazed into the tub, that frozen pit of Helheim, and considered my next move. If I left the coat as it was, it would dry into the shape of a lump, something I did not want to correct. In an attempt to think ahead, and not add to my problems like I had already, I lifted the sodden mass up and heaved it unto the drying rack. It was more a horizontal pole than a rack, but it did as the name implied.

 

    I rubbed up and down my arms as hard as I could without being at risk of removing my own skin, desperate to regain the warmth I’d lost. I had little choice but to shave now, since I was here.

 

   With a mixture of spatial memory and light usage of magical senses, I stepped over to the sink, and took up the vial of shaving oil. I poured a bit out onto my hands and started working it into my face. My nose started to tickle a little from the scent, which made me hesitate to apply it to my upper lip. After a moment’s deliberation, I applied the oil anyway. The tickle did not progress beyond a mild distraction. 

 

   Chalking it up to prolonged sensitivity from the snow, I took up the shearing knife by the sink. It was unstable from my shivering, and the better part of my brain cautioned that shaky hands did not mix well with sharp objects. I ignored it, and pressed my elbow down on the edge of the sink to steady my grip.

 

   Considering the fact I was shivering, tired, and had nothing but a sink and force of will to keep from slicing my ear off, it went decently well. I had yet to cut myself with the blade, and had forgotten about the irritation of the oil up until I started to cut away the beginnings of a mustache. 

 

    The tickle that had been present took notice as the instrument approached the border of skin around my left nostril, rapidly intensifying. I stopped, sniffled, then moved the razor out of the way and tried to rub when that made it worse. It helped, though having to work around the oil made it difficult. I brought the razor back again, trying to hurry as I felt the itch expanding its reach, the scent of the oil gently teasing it along.

 

   “Hh… Hhhih…” I fought to keep still enough, eyelids starting to lower, breath catching.

 

   The oil had never bothered me before.

 

   “Hnh… Hehh!”

 

   So why did it-

 

   “Hiihh! HheHH — Oh, too c-close.”

 

   -tickle so much?

 

  Just as I’d managed to finish shaving the left side of my upper lip, my hand slipped upwards a fraction of an inch too high, causing the dull side of the razor to tap my nostril. The razor, which was by now steeped in the scent of the oil.

 

   “HEEHH’TSSSCHOO! Ow, fa-fae— EHH’TSSCHHIIOOO! Faex!” I’d not moved fast enough and cut my cheek, with hardly the time to drop the offending instrument to the floor.

 

   “Hhhng-HEEHG’IIHTSSCHOO! HEH’TSSCHOOO! HEHK’TSSCHIIHSSH! IIEH’TSSSHH!”

 

   My mind worked through the haze of oil fumes and agitated sinuses long enough to turn on the faucet, and splash the water on my face.

 

   “HHIH’TSSCHUUH! Hhhh! HEH’TSSHIIH!” It was starting to fade as the oil was rinsed off, enough that I was able to focus on detecting where the razor had fallen and retrieve it. I held it away from my face as though it were a venomous snake, and brought it to the sink to clean it. 

 

   When the blade was washed, I brought one finger to the cut on my cheek to assess the damage. It wasn’t much, but it stung, and blood was slowly beading up around it. I wiped it away, then gingerly sawed a finger under my nose. 

 

  Ah, yes, the half mustached wonder. I considered the razor, wondered how willing I was to shave with water alone, and concluded there was no way in the nine circles I was going anywhere looking like this.

 

   Still, what had even brought that on? Was it really the oil, or?

 

   I picked up the oil vial, and in a true expression of masochistic curiosity, smelled it. It tickled, just like before, but was more teasing than anything else. Odd.

 

   I tried again, using the tiniest amount I could get away with, and worked as quickly as I could. Sure enough, once the razor got around halfway through the itch flared up again, the response even more immediate, leaving barely enough time to pull the blade away.

 

   “HAH’TSSCHHOOO!” Seriously? Just the contact was… all it...

 

“HEH’NGHT! Ughh, that hurt.” I kept my nose pinched shut after cutting off the second sneeze, my only reliable defense, and finished removing any evidence that I was ever a half mustached wonder. The very instant I stopped holding my nose, the fit began where it left off.

 

   “Hih! Hhhh! HEHH’REHSSSHH!” I heard a loud snap off to the side, followed by a clang and the splat of the wet coat hitting stone tile. I felt towards the tub with my magic to see what happened.

 

   The sheer weight of the soggy coat had snapped one of the drying rack’s fittings clean off the wall. Mater futuor! This just wasn’t my night.

 

   “HEH’TSSCHUHSHH!” 

[Tassielli]

I love it! Especially the increased sensitivity bits. 

[ID2006]

Mmmm, interested in seeing where this goes

[dz19l3]

On 10/27/2020 at 4:50 PM, Tassielli said:

I love it! Especially the increased sensitivity bits. 

Oh yes, part of what made writing this so fun is that I eventually concluded that for this character (Logan) in particular the sneezing would be less from the cold itself, and more a result of the fact that the cold suddenly made him sensitive enough the smallest thing elicits an intense reaction.

[dz19l3]

   Apologies for the wait, but I suppose it didn't hurt to let the first piece simmer for a bit. Here is part 2:

                                                                                                                                                  *       *       *

 ‘This isn’t going to be a productive day.’ I silently remarked to myself as I awoke to a blocked nose and a throat which felt as though transmuted into cracked foot skin. I could’ve come up with a less disgusting simile, but it reflected my initial mood nonetheless.

 

   The congestion which had taken root in my sinuses overnight shifted painfully to one side as I rolled over, and moved once more to my forehead as I sat up. As though a bell had been rung, with the congestion acting as the mallet, a throbbing headache manifested there. I hadn’t even sneezed yet and already my head hurt, which didn’t bode well. Fantastic.

 

   I pawed at the air where the nightstand was, and startled myself when my hand hit the surface harder than I meant, causing the small dish I was looking for to clatter against the wood. Carefully, I inched my fingers toward where I’d heard it, and managed to extract a pinch of the leaves inside it. I felt the energy they held buzz lightly against my skin at the contact, trying to bleed into me through the light calluses on my fingertips. I popped them into my mouth, feeling the energy crackle on my tongue.

 

   A gentle sense of clarity came over me after I swallowed the herbs, signaling that I could use magic again, or at least the Cerebric kind. I let my senses wash over the room, and felt secure that I could feel my surroundings properly, as opposed to the limitation of seeing nothing but blurs of shapes and colors. It was unstable, shaky, though once the herbs were digested I’d have no trouble maintaining it. In the meantime, my head still hurt, and my nose was still stuffed up.

 

   I searched through my memory of the day before, recalled the ice cube from hell, freezing my ass off during and after, the misadventure with the two ton coat, the oil. None of it fully explained why I felt like the manifestation of a blocked pipe. Then again, the fit from the night before had kept me awake for a while. It was likely just one of those nights in which my allergies had attempted an assassination.

 

   I smiled a little at the image of an unknown sleep demon smothering me with a bouquet, but had half a mind not to chuckle at it. Only half, as the rest of my brain was too busy conjuring stupid trains of thought and clogging my airways.

 

   I felt it then, the familiar, tickling pressure coalescing in the back of my nose, feeling as though it were pushing from behind my eyes. Harbinger of a morning fit. Funny, most men have very different problems to deal with first thing in the morning.

 

   I contemplated the gently building sensation, resisting the urge to squint. It was as though my body were compiling all the complaints it received during the night, and preparing to sneeze on behalf of each to make up for time lost sleeping. Within a fairly unpredictable number of minutes it would proceed with its sternutory activities. Likely without considering the fact I was stuffed up to such a degree I’d blow out my eardrums if I sneezed even once. Helva fuit. 

 

   I had ten minutes, at best, to circumvent achieving the status of being both blind and deaf. Steam would help with the congestion, though I can’t exactly heat up a significant amount of water over the fireplace, so magic would have to do. I stood up, and started making my way to the kitchen to get something to eat. 

 

   About a quarter of what remains in my pantry is only food by technicality at this point, like the jerky that’s been there for longer than I care to think about. The kind of food isn’t my main concern, with my sense of taste being crippled at the moment, if it exists at all.

 

  I couldn’t taste anything. I ate the entire bag of antique jerky on the way to the bathroom, and was beginning to regret my choice, since the chewing wasn’t doing much for my headache. Depending on how old the jerky was, I might regret it more later. Flocci non faccio.

 

   My amalgamation of a winter coat was still hanging on the broken rack, dripping despite being there overnight. Given the aqueducts and reservoir systems which act as a common water source for the homes in the area, heated water, for most, is a luxury. Thank all things good for magic, and all the alternatives it offers.

 

   I dodged the wet pelt monstrosity as I leaned down to turn the spigot, water rushing out to fill the tub as the valve opened. The sound of the water falling and hitting the stone tiles would have been soothing, were the noise not painfully rattling to my migraine. Stepping away, I tried to consider whether it would be faster to heat the spigot to warm the water as it came in, or to heat it once the tub was full. It might not be worth it to risk messing up the entire pipe system, should I fail to keep the heat focused in one area. Or maybe...

 

   I pressed one palm down on the wet tile at the bottom of the tub, and started to course a steady stream of energy into it. It heated gradually, and when I could see the first wisps of steam coming off of the surface, I gave one last burst before pulling away. The tile was heated enough to send an impressive amount of steam into the air now, and I could feel the congestion starting to loosen. Disaster averted.

 

   I started to realize how groggy I actually felt while waiting for the congestion to clear out. No, groggy wasn’t quite the word, I was completely awake. I just felt slower, less alert.

 

   My nose was dripping, a gentle process of drainage that my sinuses were having less and less patience for, let alone the headache. The movement of fluid tickled, and a sneeze was inevitable.

 

   “Heh’TssSHHt! Ohh, Dampnas!” I took a moment to be disgusted by myself, and stood up to grab a sacrificial hand towel. Ex hand towel now. In the least, I could breathe a little.

 

   “HihK’TsSHHmpt!” Faex, this was gross. I ran, nearly smashing my head on the doorframe on the way out, and started tearing apart the house for something resembling a fabric square. I settled for each and every napkin in my kitchen.

 

   Just as I was about to flee back to the cleansing fog of the bathroom with my hoard, I got the strangest feeling that somehow, I was forgetting something. I might’ve made plans, which I resolved to obliterate for the sake of my own dignity.

 

   I checked the calendar, feeling the writing with my fingers as I drifted down to the current date, and felt my resolution crumble. Fenwick. Appointment. Evening. If I did cancel, I’d feel like I just clubbed a baby seal, and I didn’t want the weight of such a sin on my shoulders right now.

 

   “HEH’TSSHMPF!” I could manage it, surely, I’d stop sneezing eventually.

 

   “HH’TSSSHT!” Eventually. I just needed a replenished arsenal of napkins.

 

   Napkin shopping on my weekend. I don’t lead a particularly glamorous life.

[dz19l3]

   Third part, fourth will be up in due time.

                                                                                                                          *       *       *

  I spared a glance at the clock on my wall, and pretended to straighten a stack of paper for the seventh time, a tick I had acquired in the time I’d spent waiting. Nearly ten minutes late. Two months of consulting Logan, and the mage had never been late. It was worrisome.

 

   Perhaps something had come up? Something which made contacting me not possible? Or maybe the fireplace was… clogged? I’d never asked how the cross continental fire travel worked. Just as I began to make twenty minutes my maximum permitted waiting time, the logs split and spewed forth a familiar, floating flame.

 

   I realized the papers I’d been fidgeting with were blank, and awkwardly set them aside while the mage took on a physical form. I was surprised to see what he looked like. It was not that he was disheveled --at least not more than usual, or that he’d made any significant change. He just looked… off.

 

   Most notably was a recent cut on his face, small but hard to miss. He’d shaved cleanly as well, an unusual sight on its own, given he usually appeared as though he’d forgotten such an act existed in the midst of a project. His neutral expression was more sleep deprived than I recalled, and he held himself with an almost defeated posture. Something had kept him, yes, evidently unpleasant.

 

   “I’m sorry I’m late, Miss Fenwick.” Were the first words out of his mouth. His voice had a newly acquired scratchy quality to it, though it very nearly blended in with his natural rumbling tone.

 

   “It’s alright, you’re still two minutes under ten. But what kept you?” His posture straightened a little, and relief washed over his face for an instant. Had he honestly expected me to be upset?

 

  “A few things, namely an herbal tonic and ethereal traffic.”

 

   “You can get traffic while hopping through fireplaces?” I asked, with equal parts incredulity and curiosity. He smirked.

 

   “No.” He said, with a tone that laughed all on its own in absence of the act, “I was joking about the second one.” He was still in a mood to jest, which was a good sign at least.

 

   “I can never tell with you!” I pretended to scold him, but knew by his face he could hear the smile in my voice. His mouth pulled down abruptly into a frown, and he sniffed, his eyes narrowing. There it was, reliable, like clockwork. I began gathering up my work materials and waited. The air in here, for whatever reason, always made him sneeze at first.

 

   “HEH’TSSCHOO! Hhh! HAH-AKH’TSSCHOO!” 

 

   “Bless y-“ I started, but stopped when I looked up and saw from his face that, uncharacteristically, he wasn’t finished.

 

   “HHH’TSSSHHOOO! Ahh-hihH!” That one had sounded particularly harsh, and I heard him make a small anguished noise in his throat. He turned to bury the rest in his coat sleeve.

 

   “HIHH’TSHHMFF! IHH’TSSHMP!” It finally abated then, and he emerged from the crook of his arm.

 

   “Bless you! Are you alright?” He flushed hard enough for it to be visible through his bronzed complexion.

 

   “Yes.” He scrunched his nose for a moment, “Thank you. Sorry about that.”

 

   “You’re fine, don’t apologize.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably despite my assurance. Sneezing was never a topic he was fond of, but he’d learned to tolerate it to a degree. Though with him, there were plenty of learning opportunities.

 

   His face contorted, and his lip lifted to flash his teeth as he inhaled.

 

   “EHH’TSSCHUHH! Hhhh! HEEHK’TSSHHHIIUH!” His chin tilted upwards, nostrils rapidly flaring, then splaying wide as the need came upon him again. 

 

   “HEHH’TSSSHHHhiih! Ugh.” He rubbed down the curved bridge of his nose with a knuckle, sniffled several times, and relaxed again.

 

   “All that from the air?” I questioned, straightening a book and a few folders. I was pushing my luck by asking, but the extended outburst was concerning.

 

   When he turned away and started shrugging off his coat, I assumed he wasn’t going to humor me.

 

   “Not quite. I’ve just been… sensitive, all day.” He took his time letting the coat fall from his shoulders. I considered the notion that he was doing so because the topic was easier to discuss from the security the nook of the fireplace created.

 

   “It’s like every little thing sets me off, even when they normally wouldn’t.” I noted, as he hung the item on one of the arms of the hanger, that particular arm was starting to look bent. I wasn’t going to comment, but I had to wonder what manner of elephantine material the coat subsisted of.

 

   “And sometimes, nothing does, just sneezing for no reason at all!” He twirled his hand in the air, next to his head, for exasperated emphasis. He was more open about the issue than usual, and I wondered if he’d been in need of the chance to rant. 

 

   I stood up, taking a step or two towards him with the evening’s arcane chicken scratch. He plucked a number of unidentifiable squares from his now discarded coat, and transferred them to his right pant pocket.

 

   “I take it the tonic was meant to help?”

 

   “It did. With everything else.” He shook his head, and moved to face me, regarding my approach.

 

   “Sounds like you’ve had a frustrating day.”

 

   “Something like that.” He admitted, then smirked inexplicably when I offered one of the folders.

 

   “What?”

 

   “How’s the Deborian tome?” I choked and nearly dropped my own folder, fleeing to the couch in long strides. He did not relent, easily matching my pace. Thankfully he was blind, and could not see how red my face was.

 

   “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” I sighed and took my seat on the couch, the taunting man swift to follow.

 

   “‘Anatomical Observances’ was the directly translated name, wasn’t it? What were you expecting it to be about?” Logan flipped open his own folder and glossed over the writing with his hand, reading through magical means.

 

   “I don’t know! Dissecting frogs?” I tried, sounding more and more flustered. He chuckled.

 

   “If the Deborians took any interest in dissection, it was the fastest way to dissect an outfit.” It was my turn to laugh, in spite of being mortified beyond belief. I looked at him, grinning stupidly with the odd mixture of emotions.

 

   “Assuming they were ever caught wearing a full ensemble.” I managed, in a rare instance of vulgarity on my part. 

 

   He snorted at my comment, then froze, surprise evident for an instant. Until his breath caught.

 

   “Hhuh!”

 

   He needed to sneeze just from that?

 

   “HUH’TSSCHOOO! Nghh. Hhhh! HAH’RUHSSSHHOO!” Ouch. He cringed after the second one, grasping at his throat for a few seconds while he regained his bearings. His sinuses were growing testy, perhaps, with being irritated by the mistake. And evidently, they saw fit to punish him for it.

 

   “Bless you, again. That sounded like it hurt.” My sympathy likely meant very little.

 

   “It did hurt.” He said, with a bit of a croak. “Suppose I had it coming.”

 

   “For mocking the Deborians?” He smiled, but refrained from making any further sound.

 

   The folder, somehow, had survived the ordeal without falling out of his hands. At some point he’d gripped the papers with his thumb to keep them from scattering everywhere. He started running his fingers over the pages again, left to right over each line of text. It was still mystifying to watch how his hands moved when he was ‘reading’ something.

 

   “What is this?” He asked, vocal cords still recovering, hoarser.

 

   “Nemean Transcripts, nothing too crazy.” His shoulders lowered just a little, easing at the simplicity of the smaller task. I catalogued that with the other off signs I’d noticed since he’d entered the room.

 

   I kept a portion of my attention on him while going through my share of the transcripts, trying to rationalize the ever present sense that he was not fully himself. A feeling that went beyond the change in his looks, as if despite cleaning himself up on the outside there was a disorganization beneath the surface. Well, more disorganization than usual. I saw the cut on his cheek again, and wondered if the story behind it might have something to do with it.

 

   “Your cut.”

 

   “Hmm?” His hands paused, and he blinked a few times, like he’d been deep into a daydream.

 

   “That cut on your face, what happened?” I asked, with more specificity.

 

   “Oh, mmh, that.” He became suddenly awkward again, and I could see him abridging details in his head, “Mishap with a razor.” A rather rude comment went through my mind about his lack of familiarity with said item, but I kept it to myself. 

 

   He quickly busied himself with the transcripts again, not wanting to discuss it further. Out of respect for his privacy, I did the same with my own papers. Even as I worked, I continued to worry, though my question about the cut unfortunately yielded no answers to quell it.

 

   Eventually, I found my practice with the runes of Nemeia lacking, as unfamiliar words and combinations leapt out at me which had nothing to do with magic. My lack of a solid grasp on the vocabulary meant it would take much longer than it should have to complete an otherwise simple project. I sighed and stood up, making my way towards the shelves on the back wall which housed a multitude of reference books and dictionaries.

 

   I’d neglected a proper cleaning of the office for far too long, as there was now a fair coating of dust on the spine of each book, and the exposed wood of the shelf that the books failed to shield. Making a mental note to myself, I trailed my finger down the line until I got to the ‘N’ section and…

 

   It wasn’t there. I looked through the whole shelf of dictionaries, thinking it was simply incorrectly sorted, but again found nothing. I panicked a little, taking a step back to think, until I craned my neck and looked up to the very top shelf, where the less important things normally sat. It was there, laying flat on its cover. How on earth did a Nemeian dictionary get up there?

 

   I tried stepping on the tips of my toes and stretching my spine until it felt like it would pop, but I didn’t come close to reaching it. Normally I would have gone for a sturdy chair or a step stool, but in this case I had a mage. An absurdly tall mage.

 

   “Err, Logan?” I asked, gaining a rather distracted monosyllabic sound of inquiry in reply, “Could you do me a favor?”

 

   He stopped what he was doing, turning towards where I was located behind him. He paused, presumably feeling with his magic to get a grasp of the situation.

   

   “Which one?” He smirked in a way that told me he was quite accustomed to the request.

 

   “Top shelf. Laid on its side.” He set his folder down and made his way around the couch towards the shelf, and I allowed my spine to relax. The piece of furniture almost looked like it was sized for a child when he stood in front of it. I tried to remind myself that it didn’t say anything detrimental about my own height.

 

   After a few moments, standing less than two inches away from the top shelf, he plucked the fugitive dictionary from its perch. A visible cloud of dust flew up, suddenly disturbed after years of collecting in the one place I couldn’t reach. He blinked and sputtered, coughing a few times at the unexpected inhalation. Assuming the amount of dust had agitated his rasped throat, I accepted the musty book from him without further thought to the unusual response. But just as I started to flip through it, I heard him sniffle. Once, then twice, followed by a small, deliberately controlled breath.

 

   I craned my neck again, saw his brow furrowing as he tried to blink the invasive particles out of his eyes, mouth open just a little.

 

   “Hhhn!” His expression changed to one of mild confusion when his breath hitched softly, not understanding why the reaction had occurred. I followed his thoughts with a mixture of trepidation and intrigue. Dust never bothered him. He’d flipped through dusty books plenty of times without so much as blinking. Unless he was really so sensitized that…

 

  “Heh’tsSCHHhooo!” His head snapped forward, and I swore I could see more of the dust shaking off into the air from the sneeze. He came back up, looking suitably alarmed even as his breath hitched again from the second barrage, backpedaling a step or two.

 

   “What-- Hih! -- What do you keep on that sh-shelf?” He asked, suppressing the light, slowly growing influence the dust was having on him.

 

   “Um, books?” I squeaked, unsettled as I remembered what he’d mentioned before. He hadn’t been kidding about everything setting him off, though clearly he hadn’t expected it to apply to something so unlikely.

 

   “Besides thaaahh-Hhh!” The mage’s lungs gradually filled over the process of many tiny inhales, as though he were being teased toward a sneeze a little at a time.

 

   “Hhh’tsSSHOO!” He sniffled again, the sound louder now, and that appeared to frustrate him.

 

   “Books, never anything else. At least, nothing that would do this.” I assured him as he rubbed down the bridge of his nose, struggling to get it to behave. He seemed to believe me.

 

   “Then I don’t know why I’m… Why I -- Hiihhh!” He stopped trying to rub the sneeze away, nostrils flaring and arching upwards as the sensation at last demanded he act upon it.

 

   “HIHH’TSSHHOOO!” It was up to its full force now, and wet sounding.

 

   “Bless you?” I chimed awkwardly, hoping that somehow the words would banish any further sneezing from him. They didn’t, as he was still sniffling and clawing at his nose again immediately afterwards, his other hand making its way to his pocket.

 

   “I don’t understand, the tonic should be…” His eyes widened as though an unpleasant epiphany had come to mind. He pulled out the contents of his pocket, a handful of napkins, napkins, and held them as though they were his last salvation. He moved until he was pressed against the back of the couch, chest already fluttering with the preparation of another sneeze. 

 

   “Oh no.” He groaned with dread, bringing the napkins closer to his face, the silly things somewhat detracting my attention from his apparent despair.

 

   “What’s wrong?” I questioned, speaking each word unnecessarily slowly.

 

   “I think I might h-have -- Hhh! Heh!” He turned away from my general direction and smothered himself in the napkins.

 

   “HEH’TSSHHMMF! SHHMMPT!”

 

   Then it clicked.

 

   “You have a cold.” I finished for him. He nodded, guiltily, lowering the barrier of… Napkins, honestly!?

 

   “If I’d known I-”

 

   “Wouldn’t be here, I know.” I cut him off before he could start feeling more sorry for himself. He nodded again, then sighed, frustrated.

 

   “I feel so stupid, it should’ve been obvious.” A few seconds after he said it, I saw his eyelids start to fall, nose twitching idly.

 

   “Don’t. I understand how you might, well, mistake it for something else.” He didn’t have anything to say to that, which might have been due to the fact he was on the cusp of another sneeze.

 

   “HH’RRSHHHMMPT!” Somehow, I had a feeling the continued sneezing wasn’t from the dust anymore. That had been responsible for maybe the first two at most. He shoved the wet, crumpled napkins into his empty pocket, still sniffling but with even more frequency. He suddenly looked very tired, as though whatever energy or willpower had been hiding his now evident distress was ebbing away. His nose was already starting to look raw.

 

   I sighed, concern sinking in around the edges of it, and walked toward the hall.

 

   “Where are you...?” He started, lacking the conviction to complete the question.

 

   “Tea, for your throat. And something that won’t rub the skin off your face within the next five minutes.” He flushed, and I wondered if perhaps I’d been too straightforward.

 

  “You really don’t—“ I cut him off again and raised a hand as if to deflect further protest, already halfway out the door.

 

   “No no no, you’ve done enough damage, you have no say in this.” I told him disapprovingly, in a tone I’d heard my mother use many times but never knew I could do myself.

 

   “You are going to sit down, and drink, and whatever I find for you is going home with you,” He froze as though caught entirely off guard, “Home. Where, for once, you will try to take care of yourself.”

 

   He looked away, sheepishly shifting his weight between his feet and rubbing the back of his neck, embarrassed and clearly unused to being offered care.

 

   “Thank you.” He whispered, sounding as though it was the hardest thing he’d ever had to say to another human being.

 

   “You’re welcome.” I smiled, and set off on my task without giving him a chance to change his mind.

[Tassielli]

Ok I have to admit I skipped ahead and read through your tumblr. Amazing, btw. 
 

and still, this story pleases just as much the second time around. 

[dz19l3]

   Fourth part here at last, sorry it took such a long time. This ended up having a lot more in the way of feels than I intended.

 

*       *       *

   The task of reading requested a level of patience and focus that had long since grown beyond my reach. The same could be said of runecrafting, or herbalism -- not that I’d be doing myself any favors by spending time around something fragrant or plantlike. In the end,  just about anything that wasn’t absolutely required for short term survival was rendered impossible by the constant sinus headache, and the unholy knives that dug into my throat each time I swallowed. 

 

   Yet it had begun to occur to me, as I sat curled miserably before the fireplace, that perhaps my boredom was for the best. I couldn’t make things worse by doing nothing, after all, even if that lack of productivity drove me insane. But I couldn’t get too bored, oh no, that would provoke a largely unneeded attempt on the part of my idiotic immune system to occupy my time.

   

   I felt a twinge at the thought, it being far easier than usual to elicit a phantom response. Because of course having a cold would make me sneeze at genuinely nothing at all.

 

   “Hhh…” There it went. Teasing, fluttering, sweet Divines just… get it…

 

   “Heh’TSHHHhoo! Ughhhhh - Huh’TSSSHHhuh! Hh’MpffSHHt!” My head and throat screamed for several seconds afterward, ears popping uncomfortably as whatever mass that had collected between my eyes shifted. Like the ill-mannered troglodyte I had become, I grimaced in disgust at the palm of my hand, and wiped it off on my clothes. A motion I was not proud to have practiced multiple times over the last two days. But all other resources had been spent, and I could not bring myself to care. I was a grown man, I could wallow in my own unsavory habits if I chose to.

 

   I took a moment to glower at the flames, in particular the small hanging kettle that was taking entirely too long to boil, and found my attention slowly drawn to the folded handkerchief. Sitting innocently on the end table beside the chair, untouched. Technically not all resources had been spent. It would be better than any other option I could come up with.

 

   Dampnas. No.

 

   I forced myself to ignore it, and settled for sniffling threateningly at the fire. It was a gift, a very unexpected and spontaneous thing that had been scrounged from the depths of Eliza’s home, sure. But still a gift, and thus that simple piece of cloth remained sacred ground.

 

   I had to press a sleeve to the underside of my nose to deal with a sudden onslaught of fluid, some manner of punishment for refusing crisp, clean salvation. Irritation danced in its taunting way along swollen tissue.

 

   “Hehh’TSSHHHHhmmph! RRSHHMmpff!” Pain exploded behind my forehead and beneath my eyes, a metal rake scraping against the back of my throat. I grudgingly rolled up the ruined sleeve, not that it was the first time.

 

   So that was how it was going to be then, at least for the next decade I was no doubt going to be waiting for that stupid kettle to take its sweet time. Was the fire defective? Now there would be a fun conversation with some poor shopkeep. Hello, I think my fire’s broken.  I might have laughed if it wouldn’t’ve been murder on my throat.

 

   Regardless, I had ways of speeding up the process, though I might regret wasting my energy. I rocked forward, rising as slowly as I possibly could, and taking tentative little steps toward the fireplace. A wave of grogginess swept through me, and I wanted nothing more than to fall back into the chair. It was difficult enough to focus through everything else without one more thing being tacked onto the list, but it would only be a moment. Crouching down at the base of the fireplace, I planted one hand on the stone -- definitely for the purpose of magic, not to lean on in the slightest -- and managed a measured, warbling pulse of energy. The heat energy rose up, shakily, towards the core of the fire, feeding it and causing the flames to jump upwards as though invigorated by the immaterial fuel. There was a hiss as they lapped fervently, and then faintly I could hear the kettle start bubbling, water simmering. Tossing the tea leaves in to steep, I smiled at the small triumph, short lived as it was. Groaning internally, I laid down on the cobblestoned section of the floor near the fireplace. 

 

   The floor felt cooly soothing against my forehead, and somehow amidst the sound of something bubbling over an open flame and my own malady-induced discomfort memory crept in around the edges. Memories from before were always so strange, when the world was nothing more than meaningless blurs of color two or three feet in front of my face, sounds in the dark, scents and textures to add detail to remember objects by. No magic to see with, just primitive senses which only gave the tiniest pieces of information in comparison.

 

   I remembered the footsteps as my mother walked into the room, of some backhanded manner through which she expressed distanced concern even after the thousandth scolding. I recalled the ceramic cup of bone broth and how the grain of the clay felt in my thin, shaking hands, of struggling to drink it through the weight on my chest that made breathing a greater chore than usual. I remembered the dizziness and delirium that had grown familiar with the frequency with which I was rendered a bundle of mewling blankets as a child. Yet distinctly, the guilty hand hovering over my forehead, hesitating, before cool fingers combed back my hair. One of the rare moments of directly expressed affection and comfort from my mother, which she normally forced herself to withhold. There was a flash of bitterness at that part of the memory, despite the fact it no longer defined me. Better not to think about it anymore.

 

   Although, the situation was oddly reminiscent of old times. Ever the sickly son, started out as that spindly, wheezing little thing that didn’t much resemble me anymore. Magical growth spurts tended to make puberty interesting that way. Yet here I was. Baffling the sciences by continuing to live.

 

   ‘Mother too,’ the bitterness added. Stercus, I was always more emotional when I was sick. I mentally grabbed the old, irrational and irrelevant dead horse that had invited itself into my consciousness by the neck. I wasn’t like that child anymore. People didn’t look at me and expect me to die within the next year. Those same looks hurt mother too, and I couldn’t blame her for that. 

 

   The dead horse from my past obediently went silent, and crept back to the pit assigned for its dwelling. I sighed, long and tired, and coughed a little when the intake of air agitated my throat. But I suppose it had a point, bone broth would be worth killing for right about now. Speaking of which, I’d probably waited long enough.

 

   I reluctantly sat up, congestion pounding against my temples as gravity threw it around, and with some admittedly hazardous carelessness retrieved the kettle from the flames with the poker. Once safely suspended on a hook away from the fire, I let it sit to cool, again forced to stop and cope with a runny nose.

 

   “Heh’SHhhmpt! Ahh’KSHHHUH-uhh!” Though when the aftermath of the sneezing occurred, I actually felt somewhat clearer, as though all the moving around had knocked something loose. Just barely, I could breathe, and my clothes suffered the most for it. After another instance of self disgust as I rolled up the second sleeve, I considered the handkerchief again.

 

   But what good would it do, really? It would last through one use at the most, and one use wasn’t worth the internalized guilt and sudden compulsion to have the cloth thrice washed under a full moon. It was a gift of pristine condition, and it would stay that way.

 

   Caring little for the risk of blistered fingers, I took up a cup, and used the poker to tilt the kettle forward and spill the contents into it, the tiny strainer catching the leaf residue. The cup heated instantly, steaming copiously and hot enough that it was uncomfortable to hold. Fingers would recover eventually, but a chance at steam treatment would not.

 

   I retreated clumsily back to the chair with the cup, clasping it deliberately close to my face to ensure I made the most of whatever benefits the steam vapors could offer. For a moment, as I sat there waiting for the cup to cool, some semblance of inner peace had been achieved.

 

   “Hehh…” Or maybe not. I turned preemptively towards one shoulder, itch crawling and building.

 

   “Ehh’TSSHHOOO! Hihh’TSHHHhht!” Scalding hot tea spilled onto my hands, and it took everything I had to remind myself to hold on to the cup through the stabs of pain that suddenly throbbed through my head and throat, courtesy of my respiratory system. The burned skin on my hand stung, presaging even more blisters for later. I’d earned enough for one evening, and grudgingly spared a touch of magic to cool the tea and the cup itself down.

 

   It was awful, the taste of smoke tainting it strongly enough I could still detect it with my sense of smell completely shot. There was still an entire kettle of it too. I really should have thought of bone broth sooner.

[MidnightCatK]

I love this character so much, and your descriptions are superb!

[fickle_tickle]

Oh wow! I love your writing style and these characters! Did you just give his embaressment over sneezing emotional baggage? I'm dying! Please please please let Eliza take care of him!! Who else will make that soup?

[dz19l3]

On 1/5/2021 at 3:14 PM, fickle_tickle said:

Oh wow! I love your writing style and these characters! Did you just give his embaressment over sneezing emotional baggage? I'm dying! Please please please let Eliza take care of him!! Who else will make that soup?

   Caretaking scenarios with Logan are tricky, given his entire psychology in terms of his self consciousness surrounding the sneezing/illness is hating being seen in that kind of state, let alone allowing someone else to take care of him. It's a sort of "I don't need help anymore" outlook I suppose. But, if that is what the people want, I would absolutely be willing to take a crack at it. I'd just have to finagle a situation together and accept that the scenario might be somewhat out of character for him no matter what I do.

   College classes start soon for me but I'll see if I can cook something up. Any suggestions would be appreciated as always.

[fickle_tickle]

Thanks so much for considering it!! You're totally my new favorite! 😊😊Difficult patients and embarrassed sneezers are my absolute favorites, so I write them a lot. To get around difficulties like those I generally push them to their limits by either making the illness or the surrounding circumstances super severe. My go-to's are fever faints and work emergencies. It’s very cruel to the characters but delicious to read! The phycology you've built is exactly why I'm dying to see some care taking! I love stories where people have to sort of re-learn how to rely on and connect to others. They have all the feels! In this case, I think it would feel pretty in character to develop an "it's ok, but only if it's you" type dynamic by the end, as these two already share a connection neither has with anyone else (neither have ever had a regular client/friend mentioned this far). After all, being taken care of has its fair share of physical and emotional benefits, and I’ve had several boyfriends who where originally unreceptive to it change their tune once there was enough trust and familiarity between us. Your explicit mention of Logan’s mother consciously withholding affection makes me wonder how he’d respond to the discovery than someone is actually made happy/put at ease when giving it to him and would prefer to be with him instead of unbothered elsewhere. Often in such situations, not wanting help/being embarrassed stems from the unvoiced or unconscious belief that care is not deserved and is therefore a burden. Of course, these are your characters and I'm sure I'll love whatever direction you choose to go in if you continue! I only make so many suggestions because I really enjoyed your writing and am hungry for more!

[dz19l3]

On 1/9/2021 at 4:40 PM, fickle_tickle said:

Thanks so much for considering it!! You're totally my new favorite! 😊😊Difficult patients and embarrassed sneezers are my absolute favorites, so I write them a lot. To get around difficulties like those I generally push them to their limits by either making the illness or the surrounding circumstances super severe. My go-to's are fever faints and work emergencies. It’s very cruel to the characters but delicious to read! The phycology you've built is exactly why I'm dying to see some care taking! I love stories where people have to sort of re-learn how to rely on and connect to others. They have all the feels! In this case, I think it would feel pretty in character to develop an "it's ok, but only if it's you" type dynamic by the end, as these two already share a connection neither has with anyone else (neither have ever had a regular client/friend mentioned this far). After all, being taken care of has its fair share of physical and emotional benefits, and I’ve had several boyfriends who where originally unreceptive to it change their tune once there was enough trust and familiarity between us. Your explicit mention of Logan’s mother consciously withholding affection makes me wonder how he’d respond to the discovery than someone is actually made happy/put at ease when giving it to him and would prefer to be with him instead of unbothered elsewhere. Often in such situations, not wanting help/being embarrassed stems from the unvoiced or unconscious belief that care is not deserved and is therefore a burden. Of course, these are your characters and I'm sure I'll love whatever direction you choose to go in if you continue! I only make so many suggestions because I really enjoyed your writing and am hungry for more!

   A few things.

1. This is probably the fastest I've ever written anything, your comment and the fact you took such an interest in this character absolutely made my month. Take this boon because you absolutely deserve it for taking the time to give me this kind of encouragement and details on what questions you have about the characters and what you wanted to see:

2. You made me realize I haven't given any real information on Eliza and who she is, which I intend to rectify, so thank you for pointing that out to me.

3. In terms of the embarrassment being subconscious feelings of the care being undeserved? Yes, that's exactly it. But with Logan it's also somewhat mixed with the general misguided concept that requiring help is a sign of being weak or frail in some way, which is something he desperately tries to avoid after experiencing feeling that way for a large amount of his early life, particularly because of the negative impacts it had on him and his perception of himself.

4. The poor man would never have left the house until he felt he was in a state fit to be seen, so while what I came up with for your request wasn't necessarily "full blown cold" caretaking scenario, I did realize I'd not toyed with the utter chaos an actual sneezing fit would throw him into, since I cut off right around that point in Night Summons.